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St
Lawrence, Ingworth

Sometimes
all historical and artistic imperatives go out
the window, and you are fond of a church simply
because it is beautiful. St Lawrence, just to the
north of Aylsham, has been through the mill a
bit; the tower collapsed in the early 19th
century, and the stump was rebuilt as a vestry
with a conical cap of thatch about a hundred
years later, giving it a kind of Arts and Crafts
feel.

At some point, probably in the 14th
century, the nave has been widened; there is no
arcade, no aisle, but it has left the chancel and
tower pleasingly off-centre. A new tower seems
also to have been planned, and perhaps even
started, for a a stair turret has been begun in
the south-west corner. It leads to the upper
storey of the porch, and then continues upwards
for a metre or so, later being bridged across to
the now-lost old tower.

The large
grass mound is at the heart of the village. The Mill is
opposite, and narrow lanes meet here, busy about their
business. An old lady was painting the wrought iron fence
as we arrived. Other churchcrawlers have told me that in
late spring this fence keeps in the sheep that graze the
churchyard. Sheep in a graveyard is always a pleasant
sight; but it is more than that, especially given the
biblical significance of sheep and lambs. The church, the
sheep, the graves of the dead; sacramental, almost.

Tom and I
stepped inside. Now, here is a place where the 19th
century restoration was masterful in leaving us a neat,
rustic little church that is at once mindful of its past
and fitting for its present. You'd have to be really
cynical not to love it. The tiny interior is full without
feeling overcrowded, as if everything necessary is here
but nothing more.

Directly
opposite the south doorway there is an organ gallery on
the north wall, with access from the former tower stump.
Cautley thought that the font below it was one of the
Seven Sacrament series, but if so then, as at Walpole St Peter, the panels have
been completely erased. Turning east, there are pastel
walls and a plain, simple brick floor stretching between
makeshift benches and 18th century box pews. It is a
church of the common people.

Beyond
a cut-down pulpit with its hour-glass still in
situ, and the remains of the 15th century screen
elaborated in a 20th century Anglo-catholic
manner, the tiny chancel is full of light, with
balustered communion rails and a simple Sarum
screen to the altar.

It is a
lovely setting for a single panel of continental
glass in the east window, depicting the
Presentation in the Temple at the moment of the Nunc
Dimmitis; or perhaps it is just before the Nunc
Dimmitis, for Simeon and Anna still looked
crabbed with old age, as if they have not yet
recognised the salvation of their people.
Balancing it at the far end of the church is an
elegant carved royal arms for WIlliam III, an
unusual survival.

This is a
place to sit and just think for a moment, especially if
you are on a helter-skelter church crawl around this area
as we were. And then, time to go, out through the crumbly
old porch, which loving local hands have made good and
mended over the years. Two rosemary bushes flank the
entrance, and I took half a dozen cuttings for Jacquie.
Two of them have survived, and Ingworth rosemary will
flavour our roast lamb this coming Easter. Looking back
as we walked down the path to the road, I noted the
trimness of the thatched roofs, the finishing touch.

On its
little mound in the middle of its village this church is
utterly beguiling - or, at least, it seems so to my eyes.
I wonder what effect it would have on a steely cynical
heart?